


Let’s Start At The Very Beginning (Remix of Just As Easy As 123)

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Education, Gen, Illiteracy, Protective Sam Winchester, Remix, Season/Series 01, Smart Dean Winchester, Smoking, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s functionally illiterate and Sam’s determined to remedy it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let’s Start At The Very Beginning (Remix of Just As Easy As 123)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Just As Easy As 123](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/15278) by roque_clasique. 



> _**A/N:**_ Written for the  **hoodie_time** [Dean-Focused H/C Remix Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/238076.html). The fic I chose to mix up was the ever-amazing **roque_clasique** 's [Just As Easy As 123](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/119369.html?thread=855881#t855881) and it's helpful if you read that one first...
> 
> Special thanks to **wave_obscura** for a very sweet and encouraging Beta and sharing my love for literacy and an illiterate Dean. A million thanks to **twirlycurls** for stepping in as a pinch-hit beta when I was so darn insecure and giving it the honest, thorough beta it needed. Bonus thanks to **mad_server** for a read-through and for telling me to get back into Dean’s head. **roque_clasique** , it was an honor and pleasure to remix you. I hope this one serves your piece justice. As a note, I'm crazy-nervous about this. Mostly because the [original fic](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/119369.html?thread=855881#t855881) was flat out amazing and awesome... And I’m not sure if this one reaches the same caliber. Enjoy!
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Also, the title comes from the song _Do-Re-Mi_ in _Sound of Music_ , which belongs to Rodgers and Hammerstein. Additionally, I own none of copyrights or the rights to the books or literary references in here.

_Prologue  
November/December 2001_

Dean glances at the clock. He has easily an hour before Dad returns. It’s more than enough time to put his plan into motion. Or so he hopes. He sits at the creaky, wobbly wooden table with the one leg that’s just a little too short and reaches into his duffle, pulling out a battered one-subject, wide-ruled notebook. Outside, there’s an early snowstorm raging and he secretly hopes it’ll tie Dad up until he’s done.

He opens the notebook and carefully smoothes out the official, engraved Stanford envelope. The notebook page has the address copied out over and over, most of them with cross-outs. But the last three are nearly perfect.

Dean exhales and takes the glossy post card he purchased last week out of the brown paper bag. He turns the card depicting a bikini-clad blonde in a Santa hat standing on some desert out in New Mexico or Arizona over to the blank side and picks up a ballpoint pen. Curling his entire hand around it, he begins to transcribe the address into the tiny box.

When he finally completes the last digit of the zip code, lips unconsciously following along with his hand, he sits back, relieved, and glances at the clock. Nearly a half an hour has passed. _But at least the hard part’s over_ , he thinks, hunching over the tiny card again. Once again taking up the pen and, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, he carefully writes his brother’s name, pressing hard. He doesn’t like the way the second _M_ comes out so he goes over it again.

He pulls back, surveying his handiwork. He feels equal measures of pride and shame at his accomplishment. He knows that his handwriting looks like a Kindergartner’s, all crude and blocky and lopsided, but that can’t be helped.

Somehow the naked, stark _SAMMY_ still doesn’t seem complete, so he underlines it, almost pushing the pen through the flimsy cardstock, pooling ink. He hopes Sam will understand everything he’s trying to say but can’t.

Replacing the notebook and envelope into the bottom of his duffle, burying it beneath his dirty laundry, he pulls on his leather jacket, carefully pockets the post card, and goes out into the blizzard.

**::: ::: :::**

_November 2005_

In the beginning, Sam doesn’t really pay attention. Hell, half the time Dean suspects Sam isn’t even really aware which state he’s in. Not that he blames Sam. He figures that seeing your girlfriend erupt in flames over your bed could be on the traumatic side and he doesn’t mind handling everything. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.

The motel forms are still the hardest part of the job and sometimes he puts the information in the wrong spaces, but he’s learned to smile stupidly, let out a few slurred words, endure the clerk’s eye rolls and audible mumbles about dumbass drunks, and the key’s his. And Dad trained him — before he’d split — on what most of the forms will invariably contain: his name (or his alias, rather), a random address, what size room he wants, a credit card, the date, his signature. He’s got a good memory for their cards, too. He memorizes the colors and logos and knows exactly which ones he can use to slip under the radar. The dead rockers make it easier to remember and spelling the name on the motel forms isn’t as hard as the rest because he copies them off the cards.

But he does worry about what will happen when he runs out of cards and it’s time for him to run his own scams — the credit card forms are different and they’re the most important and most complicated part of their livelihood. He hopes Sam’ll snap out of his depression enough to help when the time comes.

**::: ::: :::**

One night, though, Sam notices.

“They were outta chicken sandwiches,” Dean says, entering the yellow-green eyesore that should’ve been abandoned back when Sonny and Cher divorced, a six-pack slung from one finger and a McDonald’s bag in the other hand. Sam’s lying on his side, reading, and the sight awakens the hot coil of jealousy and envy in the pit of his belly. “Almost got you a Happy Meal, but I thought, nah, he’ll just choke on the little toy. Big Mac okay?”

“Sure,” Sam says as Dean tosses the burger. It thuds against his chest and drops onto the mattress. He picks it up, plucks at the wrapper and sets it down again. “Hey, Dean.”

“Hey, what?”

Sam visibly swallows, reaches for the hardcover he’s been reading and turns it over in his hands. There’s a pause and then he lobs it onto Dean’s bed.

“What’s the name of this book?”

Dean’s eyes flick down to the cover and he clenches his jaw, pressing his lips together. “Fuck you Sam.”

“No,” Sam says quickly, “I didn’t—”

“No, seriously,” Dean says, chucks the book back at him, glad to see the wince on Sam’s face as it makes impact. “Fuck. You. Sam.”

**::: ::: :::**

“I’ll have a cheeseburger,” Dean says, smiling confidently up at their waitress. “With fries.”

“We don’t serve cheeseburgers,” the woman says pointedly, pen poised above her little pad of paper, plucked eyebrows raised.

He feels his stomach drop as he glances quickly at Sam and then back down at his open menu. “Okay,” he says, “yeah, uh, I’ll take the – buffalo wings.”

“We don’t have buffalo wings,” the waitress says, more than a hint of impatience creeping into her voice. He tries not to cringe under her beady gaze.

“Chicken sandwich.” He hates the desperate tone that creeps into his voice.

“You mean chicken salad?”

Dean makes a face. “Do you have—”

“How about you take a look at the menu, and I’ll come back when you’re ready,” she says abruptly. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He tries for a smile that doesn’t feel as though it sticks. “Sure.”

She flips her pad closed and hustles over to her next table, and Dean ducks his head. He doesn’t look at Sam, just concentrates on the menu, mouth moving along with his finger, searching for a word he recognizes. He knows Sam’s staring, that he’s so frigging transparent.

“I think it’s a cold kitchen,” Sam says gently and damned if he doesn’t feel so fucking relieved. “As far as I can tell, they don’t cook much. They have soup, and a bunch of deli sandwiches. And pasta salad. That kind of thing.”

“Right,” Dean says, nodding. “Yeah.”

Then he glances up, turns his menu towards Sam, finger hovering.

“Beef?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice is quiet, patient, without recrimination. “Roast beef.”

Dean nods, shifts uneasily, and he can see Sam holding his breath.

“Listen,” Dean says, stops, then starts again. “I can – some words I recognize just fine, okay?” His voice is sharper, more defensive, than he intended.

“Okay,” Sam says, looking taken aback. “But – you don’t recognize all of them.”

Dean presses his lips together, shakes his head and sighs. “Most motel check-ins ask for the same information on all their stuff. I know what to look for, I know what to put down. I saw you watching me the other day, so you can quit wondering now.”

“You know, Dean,” Sam says, and he can hear how careful, so careful, Sam’s being and for a moment he hates it. Hates the fact Sam feels the need to treat him like glass. “Reading is just – it’s putting together letters, sure, but in the end it’s mostly memorization. Which is what you’ve been doing. I mean—” A pause. “Do you – do you recognize these letters?” He points.

Dean licks his lips, feeling trapped. His eyes flick towards the exit, his fingers scrabble at his coat pocket. He wants a cigarette. Needs it.

“It’s not a test, man,” Sam’s still talking in that slow, wary tone, as though to a scared kitten. “I just – I don’t want to dance around this. Just tell me if you know the letters.”

“Yeah,” Dean says finally, with one last glance at the door. “Well – that’s an E. Two Es. And a B. And – I don’t know the last one.” He feels his ears flame.

“Okay,” Sam exhales, processing his words. “So – you recognize the way the word looks, right, you’ve memorized how it looks, but you don’t necessarily know the letters it’s made of.”

“I guess. Sam, can we—”

“I don’t understand,” Sam says. “I don’t – how did you get through school without knowing the _alphabet_?”

“I know the alphabet,” Dean snaps. “ABCDEFG etc. etc. I just don’t know – I don’t know which letter is—”

“On the page,” Sam says. “You don’t recognize them on the page, but – you know the alphabet song.”

“Fuck you.”

“Would you quit swearing at me? I’m not making fun of you, man, I’m just trying to… Dean, you – you can’t read.”

Dean starts to protest but he can’t argue against the truth, so he settles for a muttered expletive.

“No, stop, listen to me.” Sam holds up his hands placatingly. “You can’t read, man. You’re twenty-six and you can’t read. In this world, that’s like – that’s a major disability. Like missing part of an arm or something.”

“I know that,” Dean hisses, feeling exposed, as though the whole friggin’ diner is staring at him. “I fucking know that, Sam.” He blasphemies under his breath.

“But you can fix it! You can learn, man, it’s not too late, it’s never too late, it’s—”

“You sound like one of those goddamn motivational posters.” His voice comes out in a snarl. “It is too late, I’m too old and I’m too stupid and—”

“No,” Sam says, cuts him off. “You’re not too stupid. You know you’re not too stupid. We had a fucked-up childhood and I’ve got problems too, you know I do, and I’ve been trying to deal with them, and some things we can’t fix, but this, this we can fix.”

He can feel his whole body trembling, humming, and he wants to punch Sam, but he stays still. But Sam’s words sink in and suddenly his rage leaves him, leaving him exhausted. Finally he says softly, “I’m pretty fuckin’ sick of it. To be honest.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t break eye contact.

Dean presses on, words coming out of him fast and frustrated. “It’s a hassle. That’s all. It’s a big fuckin’ hassle and I’m sick of it.”

“Okay. Yeah?” Sam’s eyes are still locked on his. “Okay. Well – what about – just an hour or two a day. We can work on it. Together.”

Dean doesn’t answer, rolls his head around on his neck and scrubs a hand through his hair, then shrugs a little. _If you’d be the one to help me and not some retired special-ed teacher, then, yeah. Yeah, okay._

“Great,” Sam says, can’t help but grin, and it’s his first real smile since Jess died. “What d’you say we blow this joint and find someplace that has warmer food?” _Someplace without bitchy waitresses and pictures on their menus_ is left unsaid.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam doesn’t waste any time. That night he starts. He spends a good hour on the laptop and then five solid minutes writing on a legal pad he’s procured from somewhere. When he shuts off the TV, in the middle of a _Batman Returns_ rerun, Dean warily goes to him and straddles the chair, arms crossed on the chair back.

“This isn’t a test,” Sam repeats his words from the diner. “I – I just wanna know what you already know. What you recognize. Just tell me the letters you know on the page.” He swallows, and more words come out of him in a rush. “Look – it’s okay. I know you’re not stupid. Hell, you’re one of the brightest guys I know. I mean, you figured out how to make salt-loaded shotgun shells and EMF meters. Not even Dad could do that. This… this is just something we’re gonna fix.”

Dean nods, hands jittering. He wants a cigarette. He wants one so so bad. But they’re all in his duffel bag and the room’s one of those non-smoking ones anyways. He glances around, eyes seeking the door.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice jerks him back and Dean ducks his head slightly. Caught. “It’s okay, I’m not gonna get mad. It’s just us. It’s only me. You don’t have to worry.” Sam swallows and Dean can see concern and desperation there. Then he brightens. “How about this? I’ll cut you a deal. I teach you how to read, you teach me shop?”

“Shop? Y’mean… like fixing the Impala?”

“Yeah. You’ve always been the mechanic in the family. I can’t even tell the difference between the gasket and the valve cover...”

“God help us all,” Dean mutters, looking away and scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

Sam’s laugh makes him snap his head up and he unconsciously grins back.

The grin falls when Sam turns the legal pad towards him. He was hoping Sam’d put the letters in order – like the song – but that was quickly killed. It takes him nearly ten minutes just to identify them and, judging from Sam’s expression, he gets more than half of them wrong.

“I told you, I’m too old, too stupid,” he snarls as Sam takes the pad back, flips to a clean page. Sam doesn’t say anything as he sketches quickly across the page.

“Do you recognize these?” Sam asks softly, carefully, nudging the legal pad towards him, brow furrowing with concern.

Dean glances at the page and his frustration dissipates as he glances over the drawings. He smiles. This he knows. “Sure. That’s a pentagram...” he points to a five-pointed star within a sloppy circle. “An’ that’s a really crappy-ass Sikh symbol of evil.” His gaze snaps up at Sam’s laugh. Turning back to the page, he points to the third symbol, “An’ that’s the logo for Blue Oyster Cult.” He grins up at Sam and looks back down, frowning. “I don’t get it though… What does this have to do with reading?”

“They’re just symbols, right?” Sam presses patiently.

“Yeah… I guess.”

“They have meanings, right?”

“Well, yeah. But I don’t see how—”

“Shhh. Wait. I’m getting to that.” Sam exhales, dark hazel eyes probing. “You understand the meanings behind each one of these symbols because you’ve memorized them, you’ve learned the symbol and you’ve learned what they represent. And you’re able to connect the meaning to the symbol. Now, if you didn’t know what the word for this was—” he taps at the pentagram. “—and you didn’t know it was a ward for protection, it’d be a meaningless star in a circle to you, wouldn’t it?” Sam pauses, allowing the question to sink in. “Same thing for someone who doesn’t know BOC… they’d see this and it wouldn’t mean anything to them.” He flips the page back over, revealing the hieroglyphic string of letters. “Same goes for the alphabet. That’s all letters are. They’re just symbols, Dean.”

“They’re just...” Dean stares blankly at the letters. Half of them are meaningless.

“Yeah.”

**::: ::: :::**

Sam takes over all the reading and writing, handling the forms for scams and the motels. But he always includes Dean, showing him new words and improving his spelling, making Dean fill the forms out, incorporating them into their daily lessons. He gets creative and practical after that one time he tries _Fun With Phonics_ and Dean nearly shoves the workbook up his ass.

Suddenly, he realizes that teaching Dean has healed some of his raw pain. He still misses Jess, still has nightmares, but he has purpose again. There’s finding Dad, finding Jess’ killer, hunting things, but it’s those couple of hours in the evenings he finds the most peaceful. Because these are the things he can control. This he can _fix_.

He doesn’t baby Dean, knowing Dean’s more than gotten by on his own for months, but he can’t help but try to make it easier, choosing places to eat that are predictable, or at least have menus with photographs printed on them.

“You should’ve become a teacher,” Dean says one night.

**::: ::: :::**

For his part, Dean learns rapidly, retaining everything, hating to make a mistake and appear stupid.

It’s as Sam suspected—there’s no learning disability, nothing stopping Dean from being able to read except one crappy-ass childhood of being uprooted and switched around more times than he can count. He doesn’t dare bring it up, but he’s pretty sure Dean had a hell lot more on his mind than the alphabet and learning how to string them into words and sentences. Weeks later, in Wisconsin, during a hunt for a Shtriga, Dean all but confirms it.

Sam doesn’t tell Dean, but he blames Dad more than ever.

And he plans on tearing a new one into their father if they ever find the elusive bastard.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean’s spelling begins to improve exponentially, even though his handwriting’s still childish, uncertain, blocky. And he begins to leave behind notes with actual words instead of pictograms when he slips out in the early morning for coffee runs. Sam doesn’t tell him but he saves them.

**::: ::: :::**

They’ve just finished for the night, studying by the interior dome light of the Impala. Licking his lips, Dean swallows, reclines against the side of the car, and turns to Sam who’s still sitting on the hood, tucking papers back into the folder. “D’you know what my biggest regret is? I mean about this. Not being able to read?”

Sam blinks at him in surprise, shakes his head.

Dean sighs, takes a drag on his cigarette. Blows the smoke towards the stars. “I dunno how old you were, but you were little. Maybe four or five. An’ it was summer. One day you came home from the library or someplace like that and you had a book. It was red and had a steam shovel on the cover. You asked me to read it an’ I thought I could fool you… An’ you just looked at me and said _‘That’s not how it goes’_ and you started reading it yourself—”

“Dean, I...”

“No. Don’t.” Dean hangs his head, flicks the butt to the pavement, grinding it beneath the toe of his boot. “Don’t apologize. I wasn’t mad, I didn’t blame you. Still don’t. You didn’t understand then.” He hesitates, presses on, “I kind of always wanted to read the book, though. You really liked it; carried it around for months and everything. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

**::: ::: :::**

Sam slips inside the independent bookstore. It is warm and bright after the chill. He immediately zeroes in on the children’s picture-book section, knowing he doesn’t have long, not wanting Dean to know he’s here.

“May I help you?”

Sam spins around and there’s a girl—short, plain, clad in jeans and a hooded, woven Baja sweatshirt. She tucks neon pink and teal bangs behind her ear and shoves up her red, plastic-rimmed spectacles.

“Yeah. I’m looking for a book. I can’t remember the name or the author but it was red with black writing and it had a picture of some kind of crane or digger on it—” Sam blushes.

“You mean a steam shovel.” The girl grins. She turns to the shelves and after a moment of searching, pulls out a thin hardcover book. “Is it _Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel_? That was one of my brothers’ favorites when they were little.”

“That’s it!” Sam grins.

“Glad I could help. Anything else?”

Sam swallows. “What book would you recommend to…” He halts. Starts over. “Let’s say there’s someone who can only read at about a fourth grade level but who is much older—”

The bookstore owner frowns slightly. “I’m not sure what you’re asking. Are you looking for a book for a teenager who reads at a fourth grade level? Or an adult?”

“Adult,” Sam admits, a blush crawling back up his neck. He hates her mild scrutiny and even though he knows it’s just clinical curiosity, it still feels as though he’s betraying Dean in some way.

“It might be a bit challenging but I’d recommend _Harry Potter_. Oh! And here’s _The Time Warp Trio_. It’s really about third-grade in terms of reading level, but they’re hysterical. It’s one of my favorites. I still reread it.” She pulls a small paperback with a coarsely-drawn cartoon on the cover— _The Good, The Bad, The Goofy_ , Sam reads before she hands him the paperback copy of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_. 

“This – this is fantastic. How much do I owe you?” Sam says, flipping through the three books in his hands as he follows her to the cash register.

She punches in the numbers. “Twenty-seven, ninety-five.”

Sam hands her a twenty and a ten. “Keep the change. You look like you need it with the Borders outside of town.”

She grins back at him. “Independent bookstore fan? Enjoy your books.”

**::: ::: :::**

Sam’s waiting for him when he comes back from hustling pool. He’s got a badly split lip, but there’s a thick wad of cash in his back pocket. He plunks the folded bills onto the table and turns to Sam who’s closing his laptop.

“Rough night?” Sam asks, taking stock.

Dean shrugs. “No worse than most and you should see the other guy—” He halts when he catches sight of a pile of books on his bed, stacked up from largest to smallest. “What’re these?” He goes to them but doesn’t touch.

“They’re books.”

“I see that.”

Sam exhales slowly. “They’re for you,” he says quietly, gauging Dean’s reaction.

Dean’s eyes snap up. “Why?”

“Just because. I figured you must be getting bored with takeout menus and insurance forms and, well, I don’t think we’re quite ready for exorcisms and ancient demonic texts yet.”

Dean lets out a wry chuckle, looking at the pile of books, spreading them around, looking at their covers. “Kid books, huh?”

“No. Reading level.” Sam’s words grab his attention, forcing him to seek his brother’s eyes again. Sam’s serious, without a trace of mockery. “They’re your reading level. Or at least the two chapter books are. _Harry Potter_ ’s a bit long, but you can handle it.” Sam takes a breath. “You’ve pretty much reached a fifth or sixth grade level in terms of reading. You’re functionally literate. Congratulations.”

“What? You’re shitting me.” Dean pushes the books aside and sits on his bed. “I can still barely read half the stuff we go through on a good day.”

“But it’s more than what you used to. You can read maybe a little more than three-quarters of any online article I find.”

“Takes me forever though. I read one for every three you do.”

“Speed will come. You can still read. That’s all that matters.”

“I could be better.”

“And you will. We’re not done yet. Just think of this as a reward. And they’re your homework. Instead of filling out forms and figuring out what’s for lunch, you’re going to read those out loud. Reading’s not just functional, y’know...”

Dean’s only half-listening, flipping through the hardcover picture book. “You found the steam shovel book.”

“Yeah.”

Dean looks up and sees Sam’s grin. “Why the hell is the friggin’ steam shovel smiling? Bet it’s lame.”

“Hey, cut me some slack. I was four. Now read.”

**::: ::: :::**

Dean sits cross-legged on his bed, paperback open wide in his hands. He still needs to follow along with his finger, mouthing the words. Sam’s right, it’s easier, he’s functionally literate. He’s nowhere near as good or as fast as Sam and he still makes mistakes, but he’s better.

He hears Sam roll over and groan. “Dean.” Sam’s voice is hoarse with sleep, but he can tell his brother isn’t truly angry. “It’s two in the fucking morning. Shut off the light and go to sleep… The book will be here when you wake up.”

Dean pauses, looks over at Sam and sees Sam’s screwed his eyes tight against the glare of the bedside lamp. “After this chapter. I only have a page and a half left.”

“Read it out loud then.”

Dean doesn’t say anything and finds his place again. He clears his throat and begins reading slowly and haltingly, his voice the only sound in the dim motel room.

_“—Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning…”_

**Author's Note:**

>  **POSTSCRIPT:** The final quote is taken from page 15 of the hardcover copy of the US edition of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_ , second printing.
> 
> **Sam’s Booklist for Dean:**  
> 
> 
>   * [ _Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel_ ](http://www.amazon.com/Mike-Mulligan-His-Steam-Shovel/dp/0395169615/ref=tmm_hrd_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1294111911&sr=1-1)
> 

>   * [ _The Good, the Bad, and the Goofy_ ](http://www.amazon.com/Good-Goofy-Time-Warp-Trio/dp/0670843806/ref=tmm_hrd_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1294112026&sr=1-1)
> 

>   * [ _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ ](http://www.amazon.com/Harry-Potter-Sorcerers-Stone-Pb/dp/0780797086/ref=tmm_hrd_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1294112097&sr=1-1)
> 



End file.
